Broken Wings
by Pineapple3000
Summary: (Winter) Set one year after the Opera Populaire burned down, the phantom returns to his lair, and sings Christine's first song. A young girl roaming the streets is drawn to the music and finds her way to the source.
1. The Beckoning

**This is my first POTO fanfiction and I'm really excited! Please review and tell me what you think! I hope you like it :) OH! If the writing is in Italics it's either a thought, a memory or something someone is reading or singing :) Enjoy! **

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_**Phantom's POV**_

_**Paris**_

_**Winter, 1897**_

Silence. The smell of smoke. It had been months since I set foot in this place where my creations were born. Since those ungrateful fools burned down my Opera house. Since she fled with the one she chose.

I made my way to what remained of my piano, my works singed black and scattered on the floor of this damp cave. With trembling hands, I pressed down on a blackened key, and heard a snap. The cord must've broken when the hammer hit it. _So this is what remains,_ I thought._ It seems fitting that as I am in pieces, my domain is as well. _I was a little pleased that at least, my violin had been spared.

"Phantom," Giry's voice was soft but weak, tired. "It has been a year; you have shed your tears. Now it is time to move on. It is the time for new songs."

"No singer could ever sing them like her. No voice could possibly come close, ever," I replied meekly.

"She is in your past, only causes you torture. You can decide if she remains in your future," she finished and left me alone with my thoughts and my music.

My eyes wandered to the violin; crafted by my own hands, it was a part of my soul, like my other creations. Music, my own. Mine to bend at will. _It is my friend, my love, my slave and my salve. Perhaps it will help me heal. If I can fill myself up with music maybe I'll be able to block out her voice._

* * *

The streets were so bitterly cold. The winter winds moaned from the houses and shops. It bit with sharp, cold and little teeth. I couldn't feel my extremities, and so my walk was a clumsy shuffle, almost like a drunk man who's lost a bet. I crossed my arms, squeezing my hands under my armpits to warm them up. My clothes were soaked from the wet snow, the humidity and my sweat and so waves of chills came upon me. One of my boots cought on an uneven cobblestone and I tripped, falling flat on the snow covered ground.

Somehow, I didn't want to get up. I just wanted to lie there and sleep and never awake._ Let them catch up to me, let them take me back to that place_. The smells of Paris weren't pleasant ones. Smoke from wood and coal fires, sewage and horse dung. The sounds at least seemed to leave me alone. Only the wind, a stray cat going through garbage, crows and my own noises: my breath, my thoughts, my heartbeat. _Strange how I feel so weak and so ready to disappear and yet there it is beating savagely, almost rebellious. It is so very very cold._

I was on the border of sleep when I heard it. Like an angel's whisper, beckoning me to it. I couldn't seem to tell if it was a voice or something else. None the less, I pulled myself up.

Leaning against the walls of a huge building, I walked slowly to where the sound seemed strongest. A grate in a half moon, with vertical bars. I heard it clearer now, though it was still faint. With my prodding, the grate opened, hinges creaking. Inside I was sheltered from the cold winds and soon I found another gate which let me pass, almost inviting me in. How strange this place must be; full of tunnels and moving walls; thrice I fell upon dead ends. Walking down a dark spiral staircase I kept my hands on the wall to guide me.

I realized as I neared that it was not a voice but the cry of a violin. Oh and how softly it was being played! Sorrowful, even.

Soon enough, I reached an open room, large perhaps and cave like. It smelled of smoke and mold and the music echoed off the walls beautifully. I knelt and listened, as the violinist started to sing. A deep and strong voice resounded all around me; a man's voice!. _How beautiful and haunting he sounds, but so cold and sad. _I was no longer frozen, but rather burning up from within.

_Think of me, think of me fondly_

_When we've said goodbye_

_Remember me once in a while_

_Please promise me, you will try _

I seemed to know this song, as though it had passed through my lips once before.

_When you'll find that once again you long_

_To take your heart back and be free_

_If you'll ever find a moment_

_Spare a thought for me_

He stopped but carried on with his violin. I could bare it no longer. The words spilled out of me before I could stop them. I did not wish to disturb this grieving man but there was something in me screaming to sing. So I continued for him, as softly as I could, transforming his love song into a lullaby.

_We never said our love was evergreen_

The violin stopped sharply. _Oh no! I hope I haven't upset the poor man._

"Who's there?" the man called out. _He sounds enraged and his footsteps thudded as he came closer to me._

"I-I'm sorry monsieur, I-I was outside in the cold and I h-heard the violin and it was so enchanting you see, that I found my way here following the music and then you started singing, monsieur and I thought there was an angel hiding in your throat and then you stopped and only played your violin and I couldn't bear to have the song end before it was time that I just…well the words just…slipped out. I am so sorry monsieur; I didn't mean to disturb you," I spoke quickly. Oh,

I thought I saw a movement but I continued.

"I felt like I already knew the song, like I had sung it before. I'm so sorry-"

"ENOUGH!" he bellowed, his voice fearsome. I cringed and made myself into a ball defensively.

"Who are you?" he asked sternly, violin and bow at his side. Muted by his voice I seemed to have lost my own. He set the violin and bow on the piano, and walked ominously towards me.

"I said; who are you?" pausing between each word.

"S-Singer, sir," I whispered, head bowed.

I heard him snort. _That's it, laugh like all the others._

"What was that?" he said warningly. _Ah! I must have spoken aloud!_

"N-nothing, nothing! I did not utter a word, nor a whisper to be heard."

Breathing was becoming a difficult task. Oh but now I was shivering, trembling like a leaf.

"Please finish the song, sir. I beg you, sing it sir," I said slipping to the floor. To no one I pleaded; "If I'm to die, let an angel sing me to sleep."

After a moment, though I'm not sure if I dreamt it, I heard his voice dance in the air.

* * *

**The Phantom's Point Of View**

_How fitting it is, for me to play this song, this song that Christine held in her palm and gave wings to_. Distantly, I heard the creaking of unoiled hinges. I glanced over, still playing, to the source but saw nothing.

For the first time since then, I sang.

_Think of me, think of me fondly_

_When we've said goodbye_

_Remember me once in a while_

_Please promise me, you will try_

_When you'll find that once again you long_

_To take your heart back and be free_

_If you'll ever find a moment_

_Spare a thought for me_

_No I don't think I can go any further_. So I kept to the violin.

Softly, like the rustling of feathers, a voice perched in the air.

_We never said our love was evergreen_

I stopped. _How dare someone sing her song_!

"Who's there?" I bellowed. The bundled figure of a child, kneeling on the floor by the wall jumped slightly. I strided towards her, rage burning through me.

"I-I'm sorry monsieur, I-I was outside in the cold and I h-heard the violin and it was so enchanting you see, that I found my way here following the music and then you started singing, monsieur and I thought there was an angel hiding in your throat and then you stopped and only played your violin and I couldn't bear to have the song end before it was time that I just…well the words just…slipped out. I am so sorry monsieur; I didn't mean to disturb you," her voice is small, quick like a mouse.

I held up my hand for her to stop, but she continued.

"I felt like I already knew the song, like I had sung it before. I'm so sorry-"

"ENOUGH!" I yelled and she curled up into a ball.

"Who are you?" I put down the instrument and moved closer in front of her.

"I said; who are you?" I said, pausing between each word.

"S-Singer, sir," her voice was a whisper, her head bowed.

I snorted at the name. She muttered under her breath.

"What was that?".

"N-nothing, nothing! I did not utter a word, nor a whisper to be heard."

_There she goes, baffled again. Am I so fearsome that my mere presence makes her tremble?_ Her face was flushed, and I noticed the pool of water around her. _If she had been outside, she must be freezing!_

"Please finish the song, sir. I beg you, sing it sir," she said, slipping to the floor. "If I'm to die, let an angel sing me to sleep."

She looked half-dead, thin and malnourished, filthy and exhausted. Her speech was that of elsewhere and whispered of a country to the West. America most likely. I observed her in her clothes, rags more like it, for they were torn, worn and speckled with mud. Her plea sparked my pity and I sang another verse as she fell asleep.

I sighed, at a loss. I lifted her up in my arms and carried her to the swan bed. Thankfully, the ones who hounded me did not find the door to this room. I took off her boots, if one could even call them as such. The soles were used, the leather thin and worn; her left foot even peeked out at the point. I removed her soaked cloak and with a cover from the bed, dried her as best I could. She mumbled unintelligible words. She was still shivering so I piled three woolen blankets over her, as well as the duvet.

Then I pulled a chair over and sat, contemplating. She moved and a flash of light at her neck caught my eyes. Closer, it was a small bar of metal on a chain with no clasp, and not long enough for her to pass over her head. An inscription on it read: _SINGER-Property of the French travelling Circus._

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**_Thank you for reading! So I got two reviews (yay!) and finally decided to write in the past tense. It just feels better, doesn't it?  
_**

**_ I'll be sure to update a new chapter as soon as I can! Please please please write me a review so I know what you liked and didn't like! :) _**


	2. The Questions

**Roses are red, **

**Violets are blue.**

**I worked real hard,**

**and would love a review! **

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**Singer's POV**

I woke up in cold sweats, something heavy on me. Blankets. When was the last time I had slept on a mattress? All I'd ever known was straw beds or the floor; this change from hard to soft had my back aching. I closed my eyes, reluctant to leave Orpheus' grasp. It felt to me as though he had been watching over me as I slept. I dozed for a moment, teetering on the border of sleep. Wait-a mattress? And why did it smell of smoke? I could hear muffled voices coming from the other room. The man's voice was prominent. My body tensed and I flew upright with a gasp.

"You've awoken, I see," he called.

"Sir? Where are you? I can't tell where your voice is coming from," I replied.

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**Erik's POV**

_Her sleep has been restless._ I heard her whimper and toss for most of the night. Giry came in the morning, with a basket of bread, cheese, cold meats and apples. She was quite surprised to find a girl sleeping here of all places. She knew most of the secrets these walls possessed.

"What is this?" she exclaimed, pulling away the black curtain.

"It's a girl, Antoinette," I replied mockingly.

"Yes, I can see _that_ but what is she doing _here_, Erik," she replied.

"If you think what I think you're thinking, then don't. She found her own way down here, who knows how. It hurts my pride that a little girl managed to find this place so easily though my mazes."

"Oh, my heart does weep for you, then," she said sarcastically.

She made her way to the girl, sitting on the edge of the bed. Her hand moved to the girl's necklace. The girl moaned, opening her eyes and blinked twice before falling back to sleep.

"Don't wake her." She raised her eyebrow at me.

"I wouldn't dare," she said pensively. She stared at the girl for a moment, then sighed and stood before me.

"What do you plan on doing now, Erik?" she asked softly. "Will you continue living here? Or will you find a new sanctuary?"

"I do not know. I cannot remain here, in this cold and dismal place. Perhaps I will travel once more…I've yet to see America's face,"

She nodded, pensive. We left the room to leave her to sleep.

"Does she have a name?" Giry asked.

"Singer."

"Singer?" she chuckled.

"Yes, Singer," I replied exasperated.

She sat at the small table and started slicing an apple into quarters, removing the seeds as I took a seat in front of her.

"Would you like to know what I think?" After my nod she continued.

"I think you should care for this girl," she declared, taking a bite of apple.

"Have you lost your mind, Giry?"

She swallowed.

"Not at all. Don't you see? This could be your chance to do good for all the wrongs you have committed," she replied earnestly. As I did not reply she followed suit.

"She seems to be fifteen, sixteen at best? A runaway from a circus no less! She must have been half frozen from the cold and sick with fever. And you tell me you feel no pity, no sympathy for her? No compassion?"

"What of compassion have I ever known, Giry?" I hissed through gritted teeth.

"My own, Erik. Hate begets hate. Show kindness and you will receive it," she said softly. "You are living proof of that, or have you ever shown me anything else?."

Her words silenced me and I felt myself torn. How could I possibly trust what she said? Had I not shown kindness to Christine, protected her, taught her and lifted her from the others? And what had I gotten in return: her disgust of me, her hate.

"It would be the same as with _her_. Nothing would grow, only wither."

"She isn't of the same flower as Christine, Erik. She has known hunger, fear and disease. She is sick," she countered.

"It is not of my concern. When she wakes she must return, above."

"So you simply intend to leave her? To die in the street like a beggar?"

Her words silenced me.

"Keep this girl close to you Erik. You are two sides of the same coin. I can tell."

"Oh really? You can _tell_ can you? Well tell me this, do you see any severe distortion on her face? Any vile, putrid looking defect?"

"Your eyes, Erik," she said softly.

"What of my eyes?" I shouted, losing my temper.

"They are the same as hers. Eyes of artists, of sufferers, of lost souls." She placed her hand upon my own. "_Trust _me Erik." Her gaze held mine and I witnessed her determination. Did she truly believe in her own words?

"Besides, if you're ever to leave France, let alone Paris, you'll need assistance. I'm not getting any younger and you are still a wanted criminal. It's a wonder you've been able to hide from them this long."

I stood, walked past the door left ajar and stepped slowly towards the curtain that shielded the girl's world of dream from us. Gently, I pulled away the draping and watched her. Her head rested on a pool of obsidian black hair. It indeed possessed the same glassy shine as the stone. It did not seem to fall straight as straw but rather in slight curls, like wires.

Dark circles dwelled under her wide-set eyes, on bony cheeks. A small timid mouth with rosy lips contradicted the determined though small chin. Her face held a childlike pout in her sleep, but hid a sort of adult consciousness within; it was evident that she was a growing child. I had not been able to see her face properly until now, as she had kept her head bowed; one could say she had charm, I thought bitterly. Bruises lay on her arms, neck and weren't limited to those areas. They caused a tremendous contrast on her skin, pale as snow, as if sunlight had never touched her. _Pitiful creature of darkness...what kind of life have you known?_I thought to myself. A pained expression of fear flitted across her face.

"_No more…Please," _she whispered, still fast asleep.

I let the curtain fall. Giry was still sitting patiently at the table when I returned, and I sat down on the chair once more. I kept my eyes on the floor, while feeling hers burn right through me. She was enjoying this no doubt.

The silence was broken by a gasp. The girl no doubt.

"You've awoken, I see," I said loudly.

"Sir? Where are you? I can't tell where your voice is coming from," she replied.

What did the direction of my voice have to do with anything?

Giry got up from her seat. "I'll tend to her."

She entered the room and after a moment I heard a thud.

**Giry's point of view**

When I entered, the girl was on the floor, struggling with the bed covers that were twisted around her legs.

"Calm down, girl; you'll hurt yourself. Here let me help you,"

She backed away throwing her arms in front of herself defensively.

"I'm not going to harm you, little girl," I said reassuringly, grabbing hold of a blanket, unwinding it from her legs.

"There. That's better, isn't it?" I asked smiling, when she stood up freed of bonds a few moments later. She kept her eyes on the floor, her jet-black hair falling to her knees, and let out a shy whisper, barely audible.

"Thank you, mum." I didn't believe she meant 'mother' by the term 'mum', so much as a less formal 'Madame'. Her clothes were damp and in rather poor condition.

"Wait here." Where did he keep those handmade clothes of his? Finally, I found the chest in the far corner of the room. These were everyday articles of wear: skirts, socks, petticoats, shirts, frocks, chemises, scarves and cloaks, most probably intended for Christine thus a size or two too large. But these would have to do.

I emptied the contents on the bed, as she eyed my warily.

"Do you want my help to change?"

She shook her head.

"Call if you need anything." I said, walking towards the door. I heard a small grunt and so I paused at the doorway, which was a sliding door similar to the mirror in the prima donna room, and saw the girl clutching her bare side. I nearly gasped at the sight of her! Blue and purple, ugly contusions laced the skin on her ribs. What spout of trouble had she gotten herself into? No doubt the circus would be a prime suspect of her affliction. But she had not wanted me to help her much less see her in this state so I let her change while I went back to Erik.

"Giry? You look pale," he said puzzled.

"You'd look so as well if you'd just seen what I saw. My God, I've never seen so many bruises on one body before, let alone a poor child like herself!"

"Is she really in that bad a state?" he questioned.

"Surely so; it's a mystery how she's able to move! I'd think she has a least one cracked rib, or more."

He turned his gaze towards the door, bearing an unfathomable expression.

"You've not eaten much," I remarked.

"I'm afraid I don't have much of an appetite," he said, his focus returning to the basket of food.

"Humph." I huffed.

"I hope you don't mind but I took the liberty of letting her use some of your clothes. You know, the ones you made for _her._" I added nonchalantly.

"It's fine." He replied darkly.

"How has Meg been since last we spoke?" he said, clearly changing the subject.

"Good, alright I guess. She's earned a part as a dancer at an opera house in Versailles. Well it's more of a theater really, but she's content," I replied. "She misses your music though. Said it had much more life to it."

"I'm happy she is continuing her career. She was a talented dancer, and not too bad at singing either," he replied.

"Well, coming from you, that is a grand compliment! I'll be sure to tell her."

I bit into another apple slice. A long silence followed, in which I heard the girl shuffling with clothes, only to be broken by Erik's calm voice.

"How is she?"

It did not surprise me that he'd want to know.

"She gave birth to a boy not a week ago. They've baptised him 'Gustave'. She is doing well," I said calmly.

He let out a relieved sigh.

"I'm glad," At my puzzled expression he added,

"That she and the child are well, of course."

He grabbed a slice and nibbled at it half-heartedly.

"You haven't told her, right?" he asked suddenly.

"No, no, no, of course not. You specifically said and I quote: "_Do not under any circumstances tell her that I'm alive, or else._" Do you think I have a death wish?"

"Thank you," he replied, ignoring my comment.

"It's good to see that you've matured, Erik." I said and he made no reply.

We both turned our heads at the small knock emanating from the open door.

* * *

**Singer's POV**

When the lady left, I slipped out of my soiled tunic. It was quite hard to see in this dim lighting and I reached blindly for a chemise which made my side cry out in pain. There was a mirror in which I saw my body; a blur of pale white and dark violet. I couldn't remember the last time I'd seen my entire reflection nor cared for my looks. I once had a small spoon in which I could see my mouth, my nose and my eyes, one at a time. It was curiosity, not vanity that made me look.

The sleeves fell a bit too low, and the skirt kept slipping down even with the chemise and jacket tucked inside. I felt a long scarf and used that as a belt, wrapping it around my middle tightly and tying it. I sat down and rubbed my swollen ankles and wrists, red with marks of the rope I'd chewed off in my escape.

I wasn't sure if the lady had meant for me to keep these clothes, but just in case I put on a long and very warm cloak, and wrapped a tasselled scarf around my shoulders and hair. I slipped on two pairs of socks for good measure. There were no shoes or boots so I put on my own.

Back in the mirror, I felt relieved that the clothes I'd picked were all in dark browns and greens. I was grateful that they matched, somewhat. I heard them talking, so instead of barging in on them, I walked to the door and knocked softly.

* * *

**Erik's POV**

My head turned with Giry's to see the girl, flattened against the side of the entrance, looking at the ground. Giry encouraged the girl to come forward, to which the girl gave a curt nod. She stood in front of us, unmoving, until Giry finally told her to sit. Her nose sniffed furtively. She did not look at either of us. No, her gaze was fixed on the food; the fresh bakery bread, the cheese, the meats and the apples. I caught her wiping her mouth. Was she _drooling_?

"You may eat as much as you like, Singer," said Giry.

The girl looked up at her suddenly, and grabbed a hunk of meat, biting into it viciously. She ate like an animal! We watched, in awe, as she consumed a quarter of the meat, of the cheese and of the bread.

"Be careful or you'll choke yourself. Here, take your time," said Giry, pushing away the basket. Growling the girl grabbed an apple from it. We both jumped back slightly.

"Alright then," Giry said, rolling her eyes. She was right though; not a moment later, the girl was choking on bread.

"Ah, here," said Giry handing her a flask of water. The girl took it and chugged down its contents. "See? I told you it would do you no good to eat so fast." The girl chewed slowly on the bread and put down the rest. She looked green for a moment. Her body convulsed from a gag and she covered her mouth, eyes shut tight.

"Oh no, no, no, no. You are not vomiting it all up." Giry said sternly.

She fought hard and won apparently, sitting back a relaxing.

"I'm sorry," she said softly.

"You're welcome," said Giry.

"Ah! Uh, thank you." The girl said quickly, realizing what was missing.

Antoinette chuckled.

"When was it you last ate?" she asked.

"Uh, umm…" she girl counted on her fingers.

"I think these many days," she finally said, holding up three fingers.

"Was it a meal, or scraps?" Giry continued.

"S-scraps." She replied, shy once more.

As she bit into the apple, her eyes watered.

"Sorry," she said wiping them. "It is a very good meal."

She turned her head towards me, noting my presence. It was then that I saw her eyes; big and wide like a small animal's and glowing green and blue. I could see forests and oceans in those eyes, for they held such depth. Her eyebrows weren't thick nor thin, and quirked up lightly, giving her a look of interest and curiosity but also pained.

"Thank you, monsieur, for your song," she said quietly.

I cleared my throat uncomfortably.

"So, Erik here tells me your name is Singer," Giry said, swooping in.

Singer nodded.

"Yes,"

"That's a very pretty name," Giry added.

A sour look crept on Singer's face but went away soon enough.

"What is your name, mum?" Singer asked.

"Antoinette Giry."

"That's a very pretty name," said Singer with a smile, glancing up at her.

Giry smiled.

"I'm intrigued Singer; how did you find your way down here?" she asked.

"I-I'm not sure. I was outside by the grate and I heard the violin playing. I could see almost nothing, but I used my ears and hands. I ended up at a dead end three times before finding this, uh, place," she answered. "If there hadn't been the violin, I would never have made it." She added.

"I didn't know it was that dark down here," said Giry. The girl said nothing and ate her apple.

"I couldn't help but notice you were in bad shape." Giry's voice was soft and cautious.

She stopped chewing. "Yes."

"May I ask what happened?" Giry continued, encouraged.

"You know I am from the circus?" she asked lightly.

"Ah, yes. We saw your, err, collar," Giry said.

The girl's hand touched it and her face grew sombre.

"They kept me in a stall, like a horse. They fed me once a day, sometimes less. I had tried to run repeatedly. This was my seventh try. My wrists and ankles were bound with rope and I chewed it every day for a week before they were loose enough. We had small crowds coming in five times daily, to see the acts. There was a woman with a beard, another who could twist her leg so that her chin rested on her foot and even a man who could spit fire or swallow swords. Some were more prized than others; mine was often neglected. They scattered white chicken feathers around me and showed everyone my back," she said darkly.

"Why your back?" Giry asked, prodding once more.

The girl tensed on her seat, caving in on herself.

"Alright, no more of that," Giry said, raising her hands in peace.

"Are you from Canada, the old French colonie?" I asked.

She looked up at me, startled, then nodded.

"It is where I was born," she said.

"Are there any operas there?" I asked.

"What is an opera?" she asked in return. What is an opera! What kind of question is that? Seeing me seething Giry answered for me.

"It's a building, large usually, where people sing and dance."

"I think…I think there are _conservatoires _where people can learn. But not operas, I think."

"What kind of music is there?" I asked.

"Oh, simple things; fiddlers and such. Nothing fancy."

"I see".

Canada seemed like an option, not a very good one but at least there was that. Perhaps I could start there and travel more to the south afterwards. Giry interrupted my train of thought.

"You look a bit tired, Singer. Why don't you go lie down for awhile?"

She looked up at her then at me, and nodded, getting up.

"Thank you for the food." She said, and returned to the room.

Giry stood, and faced me.

"Have you changed your mind, Erik?"

"Perhaps. It is true I will need an assistant if I'm to leave France. I suppose I could bring her along for awhile."

She smiled, satisfied.

"Well then, I will return this afternoon with a bit more food and my friend. She's a doctor's assistant and won't ask questions." She declared, as if not giving me a choice.

She left, not looking back.

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**Huzzah! Another chapter down! Yes I think I really prefer the past tense :) Please tell me what you thought of this chapter with a review! It means the world! A big thank you to mollyjr3 and Wild Concerto for your informative and encouraging reviews! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter :)**

**A music teacher in elementary school once told my class about a legend, concerning Vivaldi and an orphan girl. I don't remember it well but if anyone knows what I'm talking about, please do tell!**


	3. The Shepherd

**Giry's POV**

_My, my, what en eventful day! That poor Singer girl is in worse shape than Erik was when I first met him. Well, physically anyway. What secrets is she hiding? And what pretty eyes she has…_

Jeanne greeted me at the sound of the door, her back to me since she was placing a book on a high shelf.

"Welcome! The doctor is with a patient right now but he should be done soon, if you'll take a seat," she said kindly. She turned around and her polite smile grew larger with recognition.

"Antoinette! What a pleasure to see you. I hope everything is alright," she said embracing me.

"Yes, yes. But I was wondering if I could borrow your assistance when the doctor doesn't need you," I said.

"Why?" she asked.

After I explained the situation she agreed quickly to meet me in front of the opera by five o'clock. Having a few hours to spare, I decided to look into this travelling circus before returning home to cook up something for our supper.

* * *

**Erik's POV**

I rose from my seat and stretched. The room was indeed quite dimly lit. Sighing, I gathered all the candles I could find and set them in the candle holders. I found matches under a fallen wall draping, and lit them all.

Stepping lightly, I walked to the wall where a half burnt painting of Christine was hung. Behind it was a hole in the rock, of my own creation, in which I kept books. Works of the geniuses before me I would say, collections of old songs and poetry.

I chose a soft leather bound book, old and damaged by time. One of the very first I had acquired. The title read; _French Songs and Lullabies_. Those kinds of words had never been sung nor spoken to me, but I admired them none the less. Perhaps even envied their listeners.

As I read _"Close your Pretty Eyes"_ I imagined small babes resting on their mother's breast, ignorant of the world's darkness. I could almost see them, gently dreaming.

As I reached the end of the final verse, my thoughts wandered to the girl, Singer.

_Close your pretty eyes_

_For all is not what it seems_

_And happiness is but a dream_

_So close your pretty eyes._

Giry was right in saying that we were similar, alike. She had known pain, hunger, humiliation and fear. But she could never possibly know how being repulsive, rejected, reviled and hated was like.

And yet, her likeness to me was strangely comforting. She was a defenseless lamb in a wolf's den, begging for protection and guidance. Was I not once a lamb myself? And did a shepherd not guide me to safety? I had Giry. Singer had a facially deformed artist.

Yes; I would be her shepherd.

* * *

**Singer's POV**

My stomach gurgled angrily at me. I knew I had eaten too much, too fast and now I felt sick. I followed Madame Giry's advice and lay down. I made myself quiet and listened; they made a few exchanges and then she left. My thoughts wandered to the man with the beautiful voice.

_His name is Erik. I had something with more panache in mind._

I focused on my ears; the creaking of wood from a chair, the sound of pages turning from a book. He spoke gently reciting a lullaby.

I finally fell asleep to the old song he was singing:

_Close your pretty eyes_

_For time is never long_

_In the wonderful land,_

_The wonderful land of dreams_

_Close your pretty eyes_

_For all is not what it seems_

_And happiness is but a dream_

_So close your pretty eyes_

* * *

Plic.

Plic.

Plic.

Water was dripping somewhere, its sound enhanced by the dead silence. Monsieur Erik must have gone out as well. It felt like a few hours had gone by, at least so I stretched and slipped out of the bed, dragging a cover along with me, wrapped around me.

There was indeed no one in the vast room only the patter of my footsteps. I soon bumped into a hard object, a piano. I found the bench and sat down, sliding my fingers on the soft key. I'd never touched one before and my curiosity was peaked. Tentatively, I pressed down and heard a loud snap.

I jumped, realizing I'd broken something. I closed the lid quietly and backed away from the instrument.

_Snooping around…I'd call it exploring! _Someone had lit candles, Erik perhaps, and for that I was grateful. I couldn't remember since when I had had this indisposition of mine. It was probably just poor eyesight, how in the evening or in weak light, I saw barely anything.

Candlelight bounced off every surface. The room looked like a glowing faery world. I ambled around, glancing every now and then to make sure no one had returned. To say I saw clearly was probably not the best term for it. It was better, not perfect.

A gold glint caught my eye out of a shadowy space. I reached out nimbly and my hands felt a small box. Carefully, I carried back to the table. _Oh, what a lovely little monkey! _I chuckled at the thought of a real monkey playing the cymbals, even though I'd seen a bear riding a bicycle.

My fingers felt nob under the box and after winding it, music played and the monkey moved as well! The lilting notes were lovely and sweet. The melody made me feel like dancing and so I winded it many more times so it would play for a while. Then, I set it down and let myself go.

* * *

**Erik's POV**

I had retired to my quarters, to rest while I waited for Giry. Without meaning to, I had dozed off and now I felt stiff and irritable. In a heartbeat, I became conscious of my music box playing. Was that girl already awake and disturbing my possessions?

There she was, as I peered out of the doorway, _dancing_ of all things! She definitely had talent for a child her age, but not much grace or power lay in her whimsical movements. Where Christine had been a rose, Singer was a swaying dandelion; charming and frivolous. It was an amusing sight to witness.

I stepped forward, one arm crossed over my chest, the other over it, my hand on my chin, observing.

As she twirled about, she seemed to be smiling. Clearly, she was enjoying her little game but her eyes opened infinitesimally; it took her only a moment before becoming fully aware of my presence. She jumped backwards, hitting the table. Immediately she froze and brought her hands to her face. Was she _blushing_?

"Please continue, if you wish. I didn't mean to interrupt you," I said, amused. She jumped slightly at my voice, surprised or simply startled.

"Ah! Err, me? Oh no, no I was just, uh, umm…Stretching! Yes, Stretching!" she fumbled and gushed out.

Oh this girl was amusing, yes indeed.

"I see," I replied darkly.

She paled, looking mortified and it was just too much for me.

I laughed loudly, surprising myself. She looked at me, blatantly confused, which only made my laughter even stronger.

"A-ha, ha. Forgive me," I said calming down, clearing my throat and trying to put on a straight face. "I meant no disrespect,"

She smiled but remained silent.

"I see you found my old friend,"

"Friend? Oh! The monkey, yes. He is very charming," she replied fondly.

"What is it that he plays so beautifully?" she asked.

"_The Masquerade_," I answered.

"What are the words?" she pursued, truly mesmerized.

"_Masquerade, Paper faces on parade, Masquerade, Hide your face so the world will never find you. Masquerade! Every face a different shade, Masquerade! Look around, there's another mask behind you._" I sang in time with the music box.

Her eyes were closed in delight, her posture different. She'd put aside the timid and stiff stance and adopted one more peaceful. She seemed entranced, on her tip-toes, arms slightly outstretched and head inclined upward. Almost like a bird, one could say.

She blinked, smiling and rolled back onto her heels.

"That is a lovely song, monsieur," she said.

"Yes," I acquiesced.

"Is that why you wear a mask, monsieur?" she asked.

"Pardon?" I said, stunned.

"Are you hiding from the world?" she asked, looking…almost hopeful.

Again, I cleared my throat, uncomfortable.

"I suppose one could say so," I replied. Her face flooded with relief and she brought her gaze to her feet once more.

"So you are like me."

"Hello! Erik?" Giry called.

"Here, Giry," I called back.

She stumbled out of the entrance, guiding a blindfolded woman along with her.

"May I remove the blindfold now, Antoinette?" the woman asked.

"Yes, yes Jeanne," replied Giry.

The woman untied the simple cloth band and gasped. Instinctively I cringed but soon realized it was her surroundings that surprised her most.

"Erik, this is my good friend Jeanne Monfleuri. Jeanne, this is Erik, an equally good friend," presented Giry.

"It's a pleasure to meet you monsieur," she said breathily, holding out a hand that I shook hesitantly. Her attitude was peculiar for a woman, much more uninhibited than most, and her grip like iron. She made no remark on my mask.

"And you as well, Mme Monfleuri,"

"Oh, Please. Mme Monfleuri is my mother," she laughed out. "I beg you call me Jeanne,"

"I will endeavor to do so then." I replied crushed by the mountain of uncomfortability, if such a thing existed.

Their cheeks were pink from the cold.

"Please, sit down," I said motioning to the table.

"I've brought us a little feast," said Giry while putting her basket on the table. "Soup with bread and cheese and for dessert, some sugar cookies,"

"We shall dine like kings thanks to you, Giry," I replied.

She beamed proudly at me.

"Is this the girl you were telling me about, Antoinette?" Jeanne asked taking off her scarf.

Somehow, I had not felt Singer move closer to me as I made my greetings and exchanges. She clung to my clothing, pressed against me, almost hiding.

"Hello there Singer," Jeanne spoke warmly. "Antoinette here has told me a good deal about you. I'm as close to a doctor as you can get. Why don't you come with me so I can have a look at you?" she asked encouragingly.

Singer looked up at me, almost asking if it was safe, I think.

"Go on, she's here to help. And she's a friend," I said.

Her eyes returned to Jeanne and took the hand she was offering after eyeing it wearily.

"That's a good girl. Antoinette, is there a room I could use?" Jeanne asked.

"I can show you, mum" said Singer, using once again her own word for 'kind lady' I suppose and leading Jeanne to where she slept.

"I see Singer has grown attached to you," said Giry eyeing me with a smirk.

I grumbled, uncomfortable and helped her set the table. She really had brought everything; from the table cloth to the utensils to the individual linens.

* * *

**Singer's POV**

Miss Jeanne asked me to sit on the bed and to try to make myself comfortable. She took a strange thing out of her leather satchel, putting two of the ends in ears, the other on my chest and back as she told me to breathe deeply. The whole thing seemed quite strange to me but Miss Jeanne offered kind words of encouragement.

"Ah, you have a mighty heart, my dear," she said.

"Really?"

"Yes, I can hear it thumping with this," she said, holding up her device. "It's called a stethoscope."

She let me hold it and hear for myself.

"AH!" I exclaimed. "It's like a little drum!"

She chuckled and continued to examine me, checking my ear for infection, my hair for lice and so on. Even my mouth and hands.

As politely as possible she asked me to shed some of my clothes so she could take a look at my ribs. I didn't want to but she wouldn't be able to help if she didn't know what ailed me, so I obeyed. At least my hair covered my back.

She prodded my side gently, asking when it hurt.

"Well," she said, "your ribs are only bruised thankfully, not cracked or broken. Now Giry told me you had difficulty seeing down here; could you describe it for me?" she asked.

"Well, it's a big cave, with water-"

"No, no, no I mean your eyesight; describe your problem to me," she cut me off. Her words felt sharp but her voice voice hid laughter.

"Oh."

"Start off with how it began; did it degrade gradually or overnight? Are your eyes dry or painful? And continue from there," she said ever so encouraging.

"It started, I think…a little while after the circus took me in and gradually. My eyes don't hurt and are a bit itchy sometimes. I can see fine during the day but almost nothing in the evening," I said scratching my head.

"So right now, how much, that is, how well do you see?"

"There are candles so I see your face, the light in your eyes and on your...setethoscope. But it's blurred up like underwater," I said.

"Stethoscope." She corrected.

She took a lit candle and asked me to hold it. Then she blew the rest out.

"How much to see now?"

"Just the candle flame."

"And if I blow it out?" she asked doing just that.

"I'm afraid I see nothing but the bits of light coming from the other room." It was true; I couldn't see her face but heard her sigh.

"Alright, we're done. You may put your dress back on," she said, stethoscope around her neck.

I turned my back to her and began to slip into my tunic.

"What on earth happened to your back!" she cried loudly. I jumped and fumbled to cover it up. _I don't want them to see. I don't want anyone to see._

"N-nothing," I said.

"Don't play dim with me little girl, now tell me what happened," she demanded.

I started crying as Miss Jeanne turned me around to inspect my back.

"These are serious scars, Singer. How did you get them?"

"Is everything alright? We heard a shout." Monsieur Erik said waltzing in. Using her surprise, I yanked myself from Miss Jeanne's grasp and covered myself. Had he seen?

What if he'd seen? Would he think of me the same?

* * *

**Erik's POV**

Giry and I both startled when we heard Jeanne's yell from the other room.

Worried I went to see what the ruckus was all about. Shielding my eyes with my hand out of respect, I entered.

"Is everything alright? We heard a shout."

"Gah! Shoo shoo!" bustled Jeanne, smacking my back and pushing me out, following me to the table.

"Oh you are a wicked rascal!" she spouted, giving me a dirty look.

"You misunderstand! It was only by concern from your yelp that I even set foot in there. I hand my eyes covered for heaven's sake!" I exclaimed.

"Well?" Giry said.

We both turned to her, dumbfounded.

"What is the diagnosis, 'doctor Jeanne'," she continued.

"Ah, yes. Quite right," Jeanne straightened out her dress in a motion meant to bring back order on her person.

"Singer has no evident disease, no parasites. Her heart and lungs are strong, but her ribs are bruised. With rest the bruises should disappear in a week or so. However, there is the matter of her eyes." she declared, her voice morphing into seriousness.

"Is she near-sighted?" asked Giry.

"I am a doctor's assistant, not an optometrist," Jeanne replied puffing out her chest proudly, "but it would partly explain the cause of her nyctalopia. It is an uncommon affliction but the only plausible explanation,"

To our expectant faces she continued:

"Or you could call it Night Blindness, whichever you prefer. In her case it was most likely caused by malnutrition. In relatively low light such as in the evening or in faint candle light, it is difficult to near impossible for her to see. As far as we doctors know, it can't be cured but will not worsen either.

"I recommend you feed her well, especially liver. Cod liver oil is best if you have it," she added.

I turned my head to the sound of her small footsteps, as Singer advanced towards us.

Nodding politely to Giry, she pulled one of the chairs to sit.

"Shall I serve everyone?" said Antoinette.

"Yes, please. I am famished," said Jeanne elegantly placing her linen on her lap.

* * *

All through the meal, I saw Singer adjusting her scarf, as if she feared it had slipped off. Miss Monfleuri and Giry made small talk, of the weather, the local gossip; frankly all things I didn't care for particularly.

The food was superb; a vegetable soup with butter and good cheese with fresh bread. I noticed Singer was eating very slowly, almost not at all, and kept her head bowed once more. Out of shame I said nothing. Her long hair fell like curtains around her.

_She always wears it loose, as if to hide herself in it_, I thought.

When me had finished, Giry took out the cookies and poured us all some coffee. Unconsciously, my gaze often turned to Singer, to reassure myself she wasn't feeling unwell or tired as she had this morning. She ate her biscuits, hiding them in her hands as though she were afraid someone would take them away.

And then Giry began to speak.

"While I was out, I went 'exploring' one could say into the matter of this circus," I heard Singer choke and then drink her coffee to make it pass.

"and ended up going in to see." She said.

"And?" I asked.

"Well, it was certainly one of the worst circuses I've ever seen," she said. "There were two empty stalls side by side-"

"Two?" Singer jumped in.

"Yes. One was covered in feathers, yours I presume and the other, fish bones," Giry continued.

"When I asked the circus manager what had happened to their occupants, he replied that one had run away and that the other had died of disease shortly after,"

Singer dropped her biscuit, which rolled off the table and broke into bits when it hit the floor.

"She's dead?" she said, her voice crumbling with grief.

"Someone you knew?" I asked.

Singer nodded and a sob got caught in her throat.

"You may go rest if you like, Singer. I'm sure these news must be upsetting and we understand," said Giry.

Jeanne and I nodded. Singer shot up and ran to her room.

"Poor girl," Jeanne says.

"Don't show pity, Jeanne. She has a great deal a pride, that child, and that is why I dismissed her," remarked Antoinette.

She was right, I suppose, that Singer would want to hide her tears from us. I had seen a fire in her eyes, one that would likely never die out before she did. Jeanne finally broke the heavy silence that had settled on our meal.

"My, my! Is that really the time?" exclaimed Jeanne as she glanced at her watch.

"I'm terribly sorry, but I must be getting home; my mother will be worried," she said in lieu of explanation.

"You live with your mother!" I exclaimed. The very notion that a strong willed woman such as herself still lived with her mother seemed preposterous.

"Well it is more the other way around, since she has so many ailments for me to take care of,"

"Oh please," said Giry. "that old hag is only trying to keep you to herself."

Then, bending over like and elderly person and opting for a more goat-like voice;

"_Jeannie? Is that you dear? Oh Oh! I'm going deaf! Oh and I am so cold. My rheumatism are all worked up. Could you please rub my feet to warm them up? *COUGH* *COUGH* Gaaah I think I'm dying Jeannie! I see a light and everything!"_

"And you know what Jeanne always say at that moment?" Giry asked me.

"_Maman, that is only the ceiling lamp._"

She mimed comically, laughing when she was done. Jeanne regarded her with an exasperated smirk.

"Ha ha, hilarious," she said, wrapping her scarf around her hair and neck. "but I really must go."

"Erik," she said, focusing on me. "It was a pleasure meeting you."

Then turning to Giry,

"Well?" She said expectantly.

"What are you gawking at me for?" Giry replied.

"Aren't I supposed to be blindfolded?" said Jeanne annoyed.

"Oh, right. Let me just pack up."

Giry did just so, leaving the biscuits here with some water and they left together.

"I'll be back tomorrow with more food!" called Giry from the tunnel.

"See you then." I answered.

When they left, they brought most of the noise with them. Now there was only me and Singer's amalgamation of ragged breathing and sniffling.

I felt at war with myself. Part of me wanted to ignore her and let her get hardened as I had. It would do her good. But the lost child in me, the one Antoinette had rescued so long ago, begged to stop those tears from falling.

Finally, I gave up and, sighing, knocked at her door.

* * *

**MUHAHAHAHA! CLIFF_HANGERS ARE AWESOME!**

**HIIII! I'm really excited for the next chapter and I'm getting right on it! **

**Obviously "Masquerade" belongs to Andrew Lloyd Webber, Blessed be His name. But that little lullaby is a translation and variation by me, sung to me as a child. Well, I get I'm still kind of one... :P**

**I hope you all enjoyed this chapter and I'd like to personally give my thanks to;**

**DonJuana19, Mollyjr3, PhantomFan01 and XXXCultOfPunkXXX for your lovely reviews :)**

**Please go check 'em out they've got some awesome Fanfictions of their own!**

**I'll try to write as much as I can, because School, and because My Head Is Bubbling!**

**P.S. I have an account on as 'Pineapple3000', and I've posted my drawings of singer :) Feel free to go check it out :P**

**Til next time!**


	4. The Consoling

**Erik's POV**

She was lying curled on the bed, immobile with her back to me. She might have been sleeping but her quivering betrayed her sobs.

I softly called her name but she made no reply. Was it her pride that stopped her from acknowledging my presence? Christine would have gone weeping upon a friend's lap if such a thing had happened to her, I'm certain of it.

Sighing, I sat down on the edge of the bed and tentatively patted her shoulder.

"There, there."

She did not recoil at my touch but sobbed even harder. Oh what would Giry do? Damn her for leaving me alone with this weeping girl! Sighing was becoming second nature to me it seemed, for it was a good way to let out some frustration.

Her hair was splayed over the pillow, long and black as the abyss. Almost as if it was not hair but a puddle of black paint. I wondered if it would be prickly or velvety or silky to the touch.

I recalled vaguely how mothers would brush the children's hair to calm them.

Gripping my courage with both hands, I gingerly stroked her mane.

"Do you wish to speak to me about this?" I asked, my voice cracking out of nervousness.

I heard her take a deep, shuddering breath before speaking.

"Do you really wish to hear?"

"If it will help dry your tears then yes,"

"The…the girl in the other stall… was called Thérèse," she managed.

"She had webbed hands and feet and they called her the human fish. They'd throw buckets of water on her before the people came, and rotting fish. She was always sick because of being cold and wet all the time but still she comforted me. She would pass her arm under the cloth separator to hold my hand." She spoke pausing often, to breathe and collect her words.

"The night I escaped, I had taken her with me but she wasn't strong enough to run for long, so they caught her… I didn't even help her. I just kept running," her voice crumbled and jagged.

"Oh God, they must have beaten her to death for running! And it was my fault, my fault for telling her to run with me. It was my fault." Her sobs grew into wails and I took her in my arms, for pity filled my very soul, and rocked her gently.

"You are not to blame, Singer. Do not harm yourself further by thinking it," I said.

Her wet face was pressed on my shirt, no doubt soaking it, and her hands gripped my lapels tightly, hanging on. As I held her I found myself at a loss for words. So I simply let her cry until she finally went slack in my arms. I laid her down gently, unhooking her hands from my chemise. She seemed peaceful enough in sleep, almost at ease. Almost.

* * *

**Singer's POV**

He held me close to his heart and I could hear it beating, like music. Somehow I couldn't stop crying. Even so, he didn't let me go. He swayed me to and fro, brushing my hair and after forever it seemed, I finally started to fall asleep.

_Sweet and low, sweet and low…Away the monsters go…_

* * *

In the morning, I woke up cold and stiff. My heart was pounding and so I slowed my breathing to calm down. In front of the mirror, I notice I still had on the clothes of yesterday and decided to leave them as such. I checked my hair, and brushed out the tangles with my fingers.

In the big room, Monsieur Erik was attempting to mend the piano; evidently, he had short patience. As he worked he cursed often, loudly. Perhaps this is what had woken me.

Moved in closer to him, to have a look at his progress.

"You're doing it wrong, monsieur," I said and he startled away, as if my voice had sent him flying.

"Doux Jésus," he said, his hand on his heart, breathing rapidly. "Make your presence known before entering a room,"

"I'm sorry, Monsieur. I didn't think I would scare you so." I said.

He cleared his throat, straightening up his vest all the while and pointed at the piano.

"And what is it I am doing wrong, Singer?" he said spitefully. I blushed, ashamed of my words.

"Well, if I may…" I said taking his screwdriver from him and kneeling over the opened piano.

"You see, these hinges are supposed to go here… and eight of those hammers need to be replaced, about half of these strings as well. I could do it for you if you have the parts…" I said, adjusting some of the loose hinges.

When he didn't reply I turned to look at him. He was observing my work, fascinated and blatantly humoured. I blushed further and started spluttering.

"W-well…I m-mean you shouldn't take my word for it…I-I'm no expert…"

He held up his hand, smirking.

"No, thank you. Would you please fix it for me, Singer?" he asked.

* * *

**Erik's POV**

When morning came, Singer was snoring. Not loudly or roughly, but as soft as a child's slumber. I chose not to wake her; rest would do her good and the land of dreams was far better off than this one. When Giry came with breakfast, I asked her if she would kindly get me some music supplies.

"Are you finally going to fix that piano?" she asked immediately.

"You must be a gypsy oracle, Antoinette. Yes, I'd like to at least restore it well enough to play."

She eyed me sceptically, disbelieving.

"And you know how to, correct?"

"Not exactly, but I'm sure it won't be too hard."

"Mmhmm." she hummed.

"Please, have a little faith in me." I begged mockingly.

"When have I put it anywhere else?" she replied smiling.

"Don't worry; I'll bring what I can at lunch."

"Good, thank you. I'll need…tools, strings and maybe even a few piano hammers," I listed.

"Tools, strings and maybe even a few piano hammers. Got it." She seemed to hesitate before leaving.

"What is it Giry?"

"I had a little trouble sleeping last night. How is Singer coming along?"

"She cried herself to sleep, and hasn't risen yet. I thought it best to leave her alone." I omitted the part where I had held her. She wouldn't be pleased.

"I suppose that's as good as we can ask for."

I nodded.

"Well then, I'll be off."

"See you soon." I called to her.

I set to work on the piano. I had never had to repair it entirely; all I'd ever had to do was play or tune it from time to time. Of course, I'd never mistreated it this way.

As I was starting to give up, a small voice rose up next to me.

"You're doing it wrong, monsieur,"

I thought I'd jumped out of my own skin!

"Doux Jésus," I gasped, bringing my hand to my heart, reassuring myself of its presence. "Make your presence known before entering a room,"

"I'm sorry, Monsieur. I didn't think I would scare you so." she said.

I got up and straightened myself up, motioning the piano with disdain.

"And what is it I am doing wrong, Singer?" I said sharply.

"Well, if I may…" she said kneeling over the opened piano.

"You see, these hinges are supposed to go here… and eight of those hammers need to be replaced, about half of these strings as well. I could do it for you if you have the parts…" she finished, adjusting some of the loose hinges.

Captivating. I observed her work, eager to understand her every move. She wasted no time and had purpose in her ways. and blatantly humoured.

"W-well…I m-mean you shouldn't take my word for it…I-I'm no expert…" she spluttered.

"No, thank you. Would you please fix it for me, Singer?"

She set to work. From time to time I'd hand her the tool she needed, the hammers and strings that would replace the old ones

"There, all done," she said, getting up and wiping her brow.

"Bravissima." I clapped kindly,

"How did you become so knowing in the art of fixing pianos?"

"Ah. You see, before I liv-, before the circus took me when I was ten, I lived with my grand-father. He was a musician once but had retired to become a repairman of sorts."

"Of instruments, I suppose?"

"Yes," she smiled. "He was very good, much better than me really,"

"At fixing or at playing?" I pursued.

"Both, actually. We travelled a lot and sometimes our money grew thin, so we would often play for money on the streets,"

"An old man and a child travelling alone?"

"Grand-papa believed a girl should be able to fend for herself. He was very strict and taught me how to track and hunt, how to find my way without a compass, how to find water, how to find shelter and where to find edible plants,"

"By the sound of you, I'm taking you enjoyed the travelling,"

"Oh yes! I can't imagine not having done it." She replied.

Her simplicity was charming and I laughed good naturedly.

"What is so funny?"

"Nothing Singer, please sit," I said motioning the piano bench.

"Oh no! I couldn't possibly, I'm really terrible," she was blubbering again.

"Nonsense, _sit_" I pulled the bench for emphasis.

She sat obediently. Such a good girl she was.

"If you know how to play, I assume you know a song?"

"Y-yes. But it really isn't much,"

"Then please; humour me."

She played the opening, of a very common song, one I'd heard many times in all my life; but she sung sweeter than honey. I was astonished. Hearing her sing was a peaceful thing. Not euphoric or enticing as was Christine. No; Singer's singing was like cool water on a burn. Like water flowing from the sky to the stream to the river to the ocean. A journey. Christine's singing would lift you up and then let you drop further bellow than where you stood before.

_To the clear fountain_

_On a walk, on a whim._

_Her water so fair,_

_That I went for a swim._

**_Since forever, I have loved you. _**

**_Never will I forget._**

_Upon greens of spring,_

_I let myself dry_

_And there I heard sing_

_A nightingale shy._

**_Since forever, I have loved you_**

**_Never will I forget._**

_Sing sweet bird, sing_

_You who has a merry soul._

_Your heart hold's laughter's ring_

_While mine can never be whole._

**_Since forever, I have loved you_**

**_Never will I forget._**

_I once lost my friend_

_To a bouquet of roses _

_To me, he did send_

_That I had to refuse him. _

I gazed at her; she was no longer so ghostly as before. Her face, once sharp, was now softened by her meals. Her hair shined a little brighter as did her eyes. Like the deepest ocean and the strongest forest, they were. Only her skin resisted, remained unhealthily pale. But nothing some sunlight couldn't take care off.

**_I would like those roses still blooming_**

**_And my friend here, still loving._**

As she drew the song to a close, I felt like hanging on to her voice just for a little while longer.

* * *

**Singer's POV**

Slowly bringing the song to a close I took my foot off the pedal and took a deep breath.

"Happy?" I asked, turning to him but the look on his face stopped my movement.

A face so forlorn replaced his usual mask; he was looking ahead and he shuddered once before gazing down upon me.

"What is wrong?" I asked. As if roused by awareness, he smiled indulgently.

"Nothing. That was well played and sung, Singer," he said, his voice wavering.

"Thank you, monsieur" I said bowing my head.

He hummed indulgently, and turned around, pacing the room.

"Tell me more of your performances." he finally said. His question caught me off guard but I relented.

"He would play the mandolin, the fiddle and sometimes the dulcimer. We borrowed our instruments from the shop owners and in return, made publicity. So by the end of the week, we had played the accordion, the guitar, the balalaika, the mouth harp and even the wheel fiddle.

Sometimes he would sing while I danced, sometimes we would both play and sing. We rarely only played our instruments," I finished. When I looked up at him, his jaw was slack, taken aback.

"Those are a-many instruments," he said.

"Have you ever heard a mouth harp?" I asked.

"I'm afraid not," he said almost regretfully.

"They're quite common back in Canada," I said, suddenly filled with nostalgia. He was observing me again and I decided to test him.

"A friend in need…?" He stared at me. I waved my hand in a rolling motion, urging him to continue.

"…Is a friend indeed," he finished and his confused look made me smile.

"A good beginning…?"

"Makes a good ending." I think he had caught on.

"A leopard…?"

"Cannot change its spots."

"A rolling stone…?"

"Gathers no moss."

"Beauty…"

"Is only skin deep."

"Don't sell the bear's hide…?" That one always got everyone.

"….before you've killed it."

"Darn! They never get that one." I moaned. To his still puzzled expression, I offered an explanation.

"You see, my grandfather would always say, that someone who knows their proverbs well can't be entirely bad. I guess it's true,"

" Really," he said, one eyebrow arched.

"Really, really." I picked at my nails, enjoying the calmness of this man's domain.

"I think you would have liked my grandfather," I said finally.

"Perhaps." he replied, pensive.

"He died when I was, oh when was it again…?" It was in the fall, maybe two or three months before the circus found me. "…I think, yes when I was ten."

"I see. I'm sorry."

"No, don't be."

I smiled to him and he soon returned it.

**Erik's POV**

I apologized but she bid me not be. I seemed to devour every morsel of her past she let slip.

"What time is it, Monsieur?" she asked.

"Last I checked it was nearing three hours past noon," I answered.

"I thought it was morning! Was I asleep that whole time?" she gushed.

"Yes. And snoring." I smiled and then laughed when she turned bright red. I could nearly see steam coming off her!

She waved her hand dismissively, "Sn-snoring? Oh, n-no no, not me surely-"

But I cut her off, grabbing the hand she had waved. The candlelight had caught it, exposing something I had not seen on her before. At first, she froze. Then her eyes widened, and she retched her hand out of my grasp, clutching it to her chest, her shoulders hunching over defensively.

But I had seen; a circular patch of faded puce smeared her right palm. The skin in question was tight and slightly hard, with small lumps, bulging like warts. A horrible thing, different from mine.

My hand raised itself to touch my masked face.

As horror painted itself on my face, I looked at her. Her shoulders shook, her hair had fallen over her neck to hide her once more.

"I-"

"NO!" she whipped her head around, voice raging.

"Don't you tell me how sorry you are! How it's such an awful shame." she spat out.

She was crying once more. How I hated seeing her cheeks wet.

**Singer's POV**

It all happened so fast. Before I knew it, he had my wrist in a tight grip and was staring at my hand. I then felt my heart fall and land in my feet. Oh no. No. No. This isn't happening. He hasn't seen. Not _Him._ How my heart pounded so.

I yanked my arm free, turning away from him. Vaguely, I think I saw him touch his face. Was it all over? Would he be disgusted like all of _them_? Or would he dare to…

"I-" he started. Oh no, not that.

"NO!" whipping around.

"Don't you tell me how sorry you are! How it's such an awful shame."

Those people would say. That's always what they said. When we traveled, if anyone ever saw, that is what they would ask; _Oh my Lord, what happened to you? I'm so sorry, Oh you poor _thing_. And it's such an awful shame too; you have such a lovely face._ Like I was a beaten dog to be pitied. A bad taste filled my mouth and tears dropped to the ground.

But he did not say anything. He turned around and walked away. I took this chance to wipe my face and pull my sleeve over my hand. I jumped a little when I saw him come out from behind a wall; I wondered distractedly if there might be a room there. He walked up to me, holding something in his hand. I stepped backwards and looked at the floor. He took my hand and I resisted.

"Don't be afraid, Singer. Trust me." he spoke softly. I looked into his eyes, brown and golden somewhat, and saw pain.

Gently, he rolled back my sleeve, exposing my hand. I closed my eyes, not knowing why. I felt the fabric on my skin. When I opened my eyes, there was a black leather glove on each of my hands.

I touch it gingerly and look up at him once more. Nobody had ever given me anything of this much meaning.

My thanks would have meant nothing. I couldn't find words for them anyways.

I took his hand and bowed over it, bringing it to my forehead, to my lips and kissing it. He did not move away but spoke gently again.

"I will speak no more of this. I promise. But I hope one day, you will learn to trust me."

I nodded and wiped my eyes once more.

"Now, why don't you tell me more of these instruments? Were they strings or winds?" he spoke merrily.

A laugh escaped me, through my tears.

* * *

**Hi everyone! Sorry it took so long :) I had fun writing and I hope it's satisfactory. **

**I'd like to give a special thanks to my New Beta Reader, mollyjr3, author of one of my favorite POTO fanfictions, _Appearances. _**

**Another thank you to:**

**PhantomLilac**

**PhantomFan01**

**mollyjr3**

**Brava**

**For you lovely reviews! They are much appreciated :) Again, they've got some great Fanfictions so please go check 'em out!**

**PLEASE REVIEW and if you have any desires, thoughts or ideas, I'm all open :P**

**I'll write more asap :P**


	5. The Training and the Moonlight

**I am so sorry for the delay! Please have pity on me for I have mid-term exams this week, and I fear the worst from the math! I will try, I promise, to update as soon as possible. Guess who's birthday it is next week-end? ;)**

**A big humongous thank you to:**

**acompletenerd**

**PhantomLilac**

**For your lovely reviews!**

**I hope you all enjoy! :) I hope you guys get the time sequences...sorry about that... **

* * *

**Singer's POV**

It was settled not a day ago, by a fine dinner Madame Giry had brought us;**  
**

When we sat to eat, the mood was tense but only just. I had the strangest impression that something had been discussed between Madame Giry and Monsieur Erik, but if so, I did not mention it.

The meal was a fine stew; a mighty thing with bones and meat and gravy. As we set the table and the gentle vapour of it wafted to my nose, it was all I could do but drool, so I swallowed chronically.

In the four days I'd been here, it hadn't even crossed my mind as to what the future held. I had no thought nor impression of what Monsieur Erik's plans were although I doubted they would involve staying down here much longer; the silence was most comforting, but the dampness and smells were only unwelcome.

As we sat down to eat, Madame Giry addressed me first.

"So Singer, how are you feeling now?" her question derailed me momentarily but I soon replied.

"Much better, thank you."

"What do you wish to do?" she asked.

"Now?"

"Yes, now. I don't suppose you want to stay here the rest of your life?" she said grinning.

"Well, it wouldn't be so terrible, really. It's quite cosy down here, in my opinion."

"I'm flattered." said Monsieur Erik, to whom I smiled.

"I'm bringing this subject up because you have an array of choices before you," she said.

"I do? What choices?"

She rolled her eyes at me.

"Erik has plans to travel to Canada and then head south to the States, to find a suitable place. Now, we don't want to leave you on the streets alone, which is why we've come up with a few solutions. We can send you to live with my daughter Meg where you could find work in in the theater where she herself works. Or you could stay with me for a while, until you get back onto your feet," she said.

"What about Monsieur Erik?"

They both stared at me, visibly confused.

"You're telling me, that you plan to travel into a land you don't know, without any help whatsoever?" I addressed Monsieur Erik.

"Well, yes. That's the plan," he replied, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

I laughed but tried to compose myself, for I did have manners after all.

"Forgive me, Monsieur. I agree it is a grand plan; head out into the wild west, the unknown. Very adventurous of you. But surely you must see my point," I retorted giggling as politely as I could.

He gazed at me darkly and I could not tell if it was anger or simply that he was very deep in thought. I hoped it was the latter. Finally he spoke.

"You make a valid argument, Singer. And what would you have me do?"

Interiorly, I braced myself.

"What you need is an assistant. A person who knows the customs, the people," I stated calmly.

"I see," he said in mock-seriousness no doubt. "And who should I hire?"

I brushed away invisible crumbs and dust from my skirt.

"I don't see why you would need to hire someone. I volunteer," I said quietly.

Madame Giry started to protest but Erik soon stopped her.

"If you are to follow me, what advantage can you bring?" he asked resting his elbows on the table.

"As I've mentioned before, I can fend for myself. I can perform in the streets for money if I have too. I was raised there; I know the land well,"

Seeing as he did not seem convinced, I bowed my head and begged.

"Please let me go with you. This isn't my home, this country. It's a foggy dream I wish I'd wake up from. It's time I went back…to see my family's grave. If along the way you grow weary of me, I'll go."

There was a silence as I felt them consider it, exchanging looks.

* * *

**Erik's POV**

I was very touched when Singer informed me that she enjoyed staying here, in this dark damp cave.

I was also surprised when she made it clear she wished to accompany me on my voyage. She did have a point; the journey would be long and money was not exactly abundant. With her, it would be a great advantage for she had experience. Not to mention her plea was truly earnest.

I let myself be convinced and told her to sit up straight. She looked at me, eyes bright and willing.

"It is inevitable that we will have to make money on the way and clearly, the most effective way would be, as you said, street performing. Therefore, I suggest we come up with an act."

I watched as her expression went from pleading to disbelieving.

"You mean, you'll take me with you?" she exclaimed.

"Yes, unless, you've changed your mind."

"Oh No! No no no no! Not at all!" she was blubbering once more. Giry and I exchanged a look and smiled.

"In that case, we start tomorrow." I even had a few ideas…

* * *

**Singer's POV**

I couldn't believe it, though I was more than happy to.

"Oh you won't regret it Monsieur Erik! I swear it!" I was bubbling with excitement.

I bolted up from my seat and in the process accidently knocked over my chair.

I took hold of Monsieur Erik's hand and shook it, thanking him clumsily, over and over again. He bid me to sit back down and finish my meal, and I was more than happy to oblige. I believe I was grinning all through the evening after that.

* * *

The following morning, Monsieur Erik gave me dancing shoes, soft and flexible so as to ease my movements. All day, he had me jumping and twirling while Madame Giry watched. Whenever he would come nearer to me to correct my position, I would shrink a little. I had not bathed in many days and I was embarrassed by my smells. Thankfully, I don't think he noticed.

He also had me describe all of the instruments in detail. He didn't believe me when I informed him that I could play most of them. An argument was started and it ended with a bet; he would give me an item of my choice if I could prove to him my capabilities. To which I replied I would need those instruments to show him.

**...**

"Singer, your break is over," his strong voice pulled me from my reverie.

* * *

**Erik's POV**

She eagerly got up, bouncing from one foot to the other. Her willingness was encouraging, especially since I had not instructed anyone since Christine.

Singer's singing was lovely and would no doubt attract a good crowd, but it lacked power; the might to take hold of one's full attention.

"Your progress is quite a feat, Singer." In just over a day, not only had we improved her way of dancing, but we had trained her voice as well. And it was delightful.

"I took the liberty of renting a few instruments for you to play, to prove that you spoke truthfully," I added, motioning to Giry.

She brought in a fiddle, a mouth harp, an accordion, a flute and a mandolin. It never ceased to surprise me how strong a woman she was. She placed them all carefully upon the table.

I observed Singer attentively. Her eyes widened with excitement, her mouth open slightly, gasping.

"You-you actually did that?" she murmured.

"Unless you aren't good at hearing as well, it would appear so," I replied good-humouredly.

She made her way to the table, lightly brushing her fingers upon the wooden surface of the mandolin, along the curve of the fiddle, on the keys of the accordion, up the flute and finally grasped the mouth harp.

"May I?" she asked, looking up from her wonders.

"Of course." I replied.

Her hands rose and held the tiny contraption to her mouth. It was a strange instrument indeed; a piece of bent metal of which she rested the end on her front teeth. Then, closing her eyes, she plucked at a thin pliable strip of metal and sucked air in and out. I jumped at the sound it made. Pings that resonated strangely, though not badly. It sounded childish, playful even.

"Alright," I said when she finished the little tune. "Let's see if you can handle the accordion."

She smiled gleefully, and put down the little harp. The large accordion seemed awkward in her small arms, but she soon proved to play it well enough.

"Now the mandolin." I said and she obliged quickly. Her mind was quick and her fingers nimble, quicker so. Again and again, she played instrument after instrument, until finally, she had played them all.

* * *

**Singer's POV**

I put the fiddle gently back in its case. My hands had been clumsy on the strings, on all of the instruments really. I blamed lack of practise.

Monsieur Erik and Madame Giry applauded me kindly and I bowed shyly.

"I believe I owe you your wish, Singer," said Erik.

My heart sank slightly, for I knew he was unlikely to succeed in fulfilling it. He must've noted me falter and came closer.

"What has upset you?"

"It's nothing. May I keep it for later?" I asked. What I wanted most was my locket. But it was either in the circus master's hands or pawned away by now.

"Of course." He replied, eyes narrowing.

* * *

Madame Giry would have stayed but she had important matters to attend to and so, in a clutter and a flurry, she left with the instruments.

We sat in silence, Erik and I. He started to unpack the small supper left by our caretaker. Very simple; bread, cheese, fruits and water. We ate quietly, the sound of my chewing loud in my ears.

Soon, he got up and announced that he was going to go rest and that I could have the evening off, so to speak. I watch him go, curious as to where it was he slept. This man was like mist disappearing into the shadows at will. I made note of the spot where he slid into the darkness.

In the meantime, I returned to my room and practised a little of what I had learned. My muscles where finally starting to wake up from the time in captivity, where exercise had been sparse. Unless sitting on a chair half-naked was some sort of sport.

I pushed away my miserable thoughts.

I made as little noise as possible, not wishing to disturb my good master. He'd seen…and had not said a thing since. Softly, I sank to the bed, sitting on the edge. The reasons behind his actions eluded me, though in any case I was grateful. Perhaps even…happy. Whatever winter winds had been left inside me from the outside weather, were easing away; replaced by a balmy breeze.

For five long years I was kept in that nomadic place of bright colors and noise. For five long years I nearly forgot what kindness was, what happiness felt like. Every day was filled with pain…and the primal need to escape.

And now I had.

It all seemed unreal, like a soap bubble to be popped. Sometimes, it felt like this safe heaven was just a dream and that soon, I'd wake up in my stall, tied, bruised and hungry.

Oh how nice it felt to have a full belly!

_But you left her behind_, said a dark voice inside my head. My blood ran cold but I pushed it away quickly.

It had become quite quiet now and I knew Erik must've gone to sleep.

Monsieur…Erik…

He made me feel so strange.

Men, besides my grand-father of course and a chosen few, had only ever caused my suffering. Men were evil beings, always hungry and ready to kill. I hated men.

Yet he had proven to be kind-hearted and that made me feel strange. I was grateful, of course; who wouldn't be? But it felt stronger than just that. He was my protector and we got along alright. By our encounters, I could tell I amused him and that made me happy. I wanted to please him, to impress him. I wanted to be his pet, the thing that brought him delight.

He showed much patience while teaching me and guiding me through the music and the dancing, even if that was more on Madame Giry's part.

Then there was the matter of his mask. Like me he was hiding.

I looked at my gloved hands, rubbing the thin black leather. Grand-father had told me to be proud of my scars for they identified me as a strong, resilient person. But, for now at least, that wasn't who I felt like. Just another mask.

I got up and lit a few more candles since some had either been blown out or had simply drowned in their own wax puddles.

Once more, I decided to go exploring. In the wardrobe, I went through the clothing; moth eaten dresses, coats, and just about anything a lady would wear. These had not been made for a child like me. Who had this room belonged to?

I walked along the walls and soon bumped against flat, square objects covered by draping. Their surface felt taught like a drum's. I pulled one out and brought it by the light. What a painting it was! A beautiful young woman, stunning and radiant. Her brown eyes held a soft expression, her hair darker and curling sweetly around her face. It was painted so well, it felt like she would come to life at any moment and start dancing with me.

Who was she?

I wondered if Monsieur Erik had painted this, if the lady had been only a model…or someone for whom he cared. Why wasn't he with her now if so? Perhaps she had died long ago…

In my head, I tried to picture Erik as best I could, to visualise every feature. In retrospect, he looked forlorn. Why hadn't I noticed before? What else was he hiding?

Oh but I wouldn't ask him, no. If he had done this for me, these gloves and his promise, then I would show him the same kindness. My mind drifted to Thérèse, how we had found solace in each other's presence.

My heart told me to cry but I did not have the strength to obey.

Carefully, I replaced the painting just as it had been, draping the fabric over it, as if letting it rest in peace. My mind was full of questions, buzzing with excitement. Sleep was therefore futile.

I decided on a little exploring and lit a candle. I carried it in a metal holder, protecting the flame from the wind with a cupped hand.

I stepped out into the open, but where I had thought to meet total darkness, there were beams of light. Moonlight! Soft and pale. It reflected upon the water, caressing it and the ceiling. A silly part of me recalled a song of my childhood where the water and moonlight were lovers; how the water loved being touched by the moonlight and how sad it must be when the moon left every morning.

I shook my head at myself. I walked closer to the water; it looked clean and pure. Momentarily, I thought of how filthy I was. Madame Giry had showed me where to do…my business, when I had to. Something Monsieur Erik had also designed, to dispose of waste quickly and cleanly.

I looked around and listened. Faintly, I could hear even-breathing. He was sound asleep!

On tip-toes, I fetched a small sheet from the chest, and returned to the lake.

I placed the candle on the edge to the stone floor and gingerly undressed. I disliked being uncovered; my scars made visible. Holding the sheet to my front, I gently stepped into the water.

To my great surprise, it was warm. Perhaps this is how he managed to keep this place heated in spite of the cold outside.

I wished I had some soap, but I managed by rubbing myself vigorously. My hair was limp with grease so, taking a deep breath I submerged myself entirely.

* * *

**Erik's POV**

I was awakened by water. Not a bucket thrown at me of course, but a small splash. I sat up, rubbing away the sleep from my eyes and put on my mask. I had slept longer than intended, and as a result my mood seemed to be dampened; nightime always brought my inventing to life. It made every part of me more acute and rustled my imagination. I put on my vest and adjusted myself, meticulous as ever, and walked out of my hidden door, intent on playing my piano.

Oh the sight that awaited me!

As soon as I saw, I froze on the spot, only to hide quickly behind the draping that covered the stone walls. What was Singer thinking? Standing in the open, barely covered! Her hair was longer, free of tangles and filth too, I suppose. It reached part way down her thighs, as did the soaked through white cloth that kept her modesty safely hid.

It was a beautiful picture, worthy of music and poems! Her body made visible by the yellow candlelight and pale moonlight. As if dawn where visiting the moon. She moved the sheet, exposing more flesh but hastily wrapped it around herself, folding it in front of her and tucking the end in. I was so deeply entranced I hardly noticed the strange coloring and odd texture of her body. Where her face was pale as snow, her limbs and back were marred by darker blotches.

I paled when I realised why it looked so familiar. Her _hand_. What covered most of her body was of the same kind as her hand. My thoughts ran wild, searching for answers to questions I swore to her would not be asked.

Was she born this way? Had there been an accident? Was it intentionally done by someone?

I was distracted from my thoughts by her moving.

The material clung to her body, not leaving much to the imagination. Perhaps I had underestimated her age. Her hips were well formed, her waist both delicate and strong.

She shivered and sat down by the candle, dipping her legs in the water. She pulled all of her hair around to one side of her neck, carefully combing it with her fingers. She twisted it so that water poured out and then braided it. She was singing once more, a song I knew nothing of, probably from her first life, before the circus.

_La Lune aime se baigner The moon likes to swim_

_Dans les eaux de pluie In rain waters_

_Et ses rayons lumineux peigner, And with her luminous rays brushed_

_Nage dans les eaux de la nuit. Swims in nightly waters_

_Si elle y prend plaisir If she takes pleasure in this_

_La mer est bien triste de la voir partir The sea is sad to see her leave_

_Tous les matins. Tous les matins, Every morning. Every morning,_

_La mer se cache sous ses eaux de satin. __The sea hides under her satin waters._

_La mer, elle devient folle! __The sea, she's going mad!_

_De cette lune qui lui volle Madly in love with the moon that takes_

_Son cœur comme à chacune. __Her heart away, like many before her._

_Oh! Tout pour les caresses de la Lune. __Oh! Everything for the moon's caresses._

Though she sung it sweetly, it told a story of sorrow. A simple ballad, that was all it was.

She got up, rubbing her arms for warmth and collecting her clothes which lay on the floor in a neat pile.

Then, candle in hand, she silently tip-toed back to her room, her braid swinging back and forth.

I sunk deeper into the shadows, sinking against the wall.

I dragged my hands across my face once, trying to recover my bearings.

This was not good.

* * *

**Thank you so much! Please send me whatever questions you may have on everything so far :)**

**As always,**

**Pa3k :P**


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